


Supposition

by meetmeatthecoda



Series: Katarina Chronicles [3]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Hopeful, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, Romance, angsty, season 7 finale speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "Red breaks his stare and abandons their drinks in favor of bracing both hands against the countertop, leaning forward, hunching his back, ducking his head, looking physicallyweighed downby what she’s just told him.A clap of thunder sounds from outside."Season 7 finale speculation. Liz voluntarily tells Red that Katarina is alive and they've been working together. Red has a reaction she doesn't expect. Feelings and revelations ensue. Angsty and hopeful Lizzington. Part 3 of Katarina Chronicles.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Series: Katarina Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672366
Comments: 20
Kudos: 83





	Supposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [codewordpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codewordpumpkin/gifts).



“I helped Katarina fake her death and we’ve been looking for answers together.”

There’s rain falling heavily on the roof, punctuated with an occasional rumble of thunder from somewhere in the distance, echoing through a melancholy sky, misty and blue-grey, visible outside his apartment window.

She’s on the couch and he’s in the kitchen, only a few feet from her, his back to her as he prepares drinks for them, something that’s become their habit as of late. As she speaks, she sees his hands, previously busy with ice and fancy bottles, still to a stop as he takes in her words.

She says them brightly, light and carefree, trying to bring some sunlight into the rainy dimness of the apartment, because that’s how she feels. She’s come to him tonight in an effort to come clean, get rid of any potentially damaging secrets, not wanting their old friend animosity to sneak into the dwindling space between them.

But she doesn’t think he’ll mind, really. Yes, she’s technically gone around him, behind his back to another source for answers, and one he’s not on the best terms with to say the least, but she’s not trying to hurt him. Never that.

(And there was a time not too long ago when that was her only goal in life, to cause him harm. But things have happened since then, feelings have grown and molded and, she knows as sure as she’s breathing, she would rather _die_ than cause him pain now.)

So, it shouldn’t matter really. He doesn’t need to get involved. This admission is a gesture of good faith on her part, and now that he knows, she and Red can continue cautiously edging closer to something new and exciting that starts with late night drinks in his safe house during a thunderstorm and –

“I suppose it’s a favorite past time of women in your family, isn’t it?”

Liz freezes, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling at his tone, something in his voice that sounds like grating and harshness and venom –

“Faking your deaths.”

The words, spat from his mouth, his back still to her, hit her like a fist to the gut because he sounds _angry_ –

_“Hurting me.”_

Her breath actually leaves her in a whoosh, stunned, the accusatory power of his words almost knocking her down, and he’s slowly turning to face her and the look on his face is so much worse than she thought because, no, he doesn’t look angry, he looks –

_Sad_.

(And this is _not_ what she wanted.)

“Red?” she gasps, confused and questioning, staring helplessly at his shuttered, baleful gaze.

Red breaks his stare and abandons their drinks in favor of bracing both hands against the countertop, leaning forward, hunching his back, ducking his head, looking physically _weighed down_ by what she’s just told him.

A clap of thunder sounds from outside.

“Red,” Liz says again, quieter and more desperate, driven to her feet by an aching in her chest at his defeated posture. “Red, I –”

“How could you do this, Lizzie?” he interrupts her easily, not out of volume – his voice is almost a whisper – but out of the sheer devastation that leaks from it.

Liz says nothing, gaping unattractively like a fish, at a complete loss for words. She never expected him to take it this hard.

“How could you think for a moment that she’ll help you?” he continues to ask his open-ended, searching questions, not waiting for answers she clearly can’t give, seemingly lost in his own wonderings. “How could you ever think you can _trust_ her?”

He looks up at her then, helpless and aghast, and the word “trust” seems to kickstart her halfway back to life.

“I—,” she clears her throat uselessly. “I’m cautious of her, Red. I don’t even know where she is, we never meet…”

But Red is shaking his head before her half-hearted justification can even peter out.

“You think she can’t find you when she wants to? Lizzie, she snuck into your home like a thief in the night, committed murder _right in front of Agnes_ –”

“I know those things, Red!” Liz interrupts him this time, not appreciating the reminder of what Katarina did to Agnes. “I haven’t forgotten, believe me…”

She tries to say it firmly and with conviction, but it comes out weak and sad instead, and Red fixes her with a pitying look, slowly, dejectedly shaking his head.

“She will betray you again, Lizzie.”

A heavier crash of thunder booms, rattling the dishware in the kitchen.

Liz feels tears gather in her eyes at his simple statement, the inevitability and finality ringing out in the room along with the echoing thunder, the realization of her greatest fear striking cold regret in her heart.

(After all the false people that have come into her life, starting with Red – the second time – she often wonders if she’ll ever be able to trust anyone again.)

But, stubborn as always, and not wanting Red to see the despair she knows is already evident on her face, Liz speaks again, her voice small, staring fixedly at her feet.

“She’s my mother. She needs answers just as much as I do, and we can help each other get them,” Liz picks her head up with effort, feeling as beaten down as Red looks as she admits her greatest weakness.

“And I want my answers, Red.”

He stares back at her, silent for a long, awful moment, looking sad and just… _disappointed_.

When he speaks next, his voice is almost as small as hers, tentative and unsure and hurt and sad and –

“I thought they didn’t matter anymore.”

And the realization of what he’s implying, the resurrection of his imprisonment and her confessions, the questioning of things that have never been more true for her, makes her heart clench in her chest and her tears spill unbidden down her cheeks, as fast as the rivulets of rain running down the window pane.

(Because she vividly remembers standing in a different safe house, telling him that his life means more to her than any of her precious answers, and she _meant it_ –)

She truly didn’t think he would be involved this time around, put in no danger as she investigated with Katarina, and she was right. But she didn’t expect him to be so…betrayed. Because the way he’s looking at her right now is worse than the night he said he’d never believe her again, and she didn’t think that was possible but the painful tempest now raging in her chest says otherwise.

“I suppose,” she mutters, trying to speak clearly through her tears and bitter regret. “I suppose I’m just weak. I’m sorry, Red.”

She turns to leave the safe house, unable to bear another moment of his disappointed, accusatory eyes, leaving him there looking like an injured animal, the coward that she is, reaching for the doorknob to –

But then there’s a flash of lightning and a hand around her wrist and he’s yanking her back into the apartment to push her back against the wall in the entrance hall as thunder booms outside once again and his face is so, so close to hers and, oh, she’s stopped breathing.

“I can’t let you leave, Lizzie.”

And Liz can’t help the tiny flash of fear she feels at his words because maybe this is it, maybe she’s finally pushed him too far, maybe this is finally one betrayal too many, and she’s no longer exempt from his particular brand of justice –

“You can’t just _say_ that and then _leave_ , I don’t –”

But no, his uncharacteristically stuttered words bring her focus back to his face and he still doesn’t look mad, there’s no trace of the dark rage that she’s intimately familiar with, he still just looks…

Devastatingly hurt.

So, Liz looks at him, really looks, at his soft skin, his smooth cheeks, just the faintest trace of stubble at this hour of the night, his eyes, so near, so wet and pleading and sad that Liz’s whole body unclenches.

No. He’s not going to hurt her.

(With as instinctive as her panic was, she forgot one crucial fact about Red: he’s not Tom.)

When he speaks again, his voice has a quality she’s never quite heard before, something small and unsure and imploring.

Vulnerable.

“Lizzie…I thought you said…” and he pauses delicately, looking at her brokenly, before he absolutely destroys her with his next words.

“I thought you said we have each other.”

And his reference to the ballet, the night he came to support Agnes, watched from the wings, brought a “friend” that had Liz biting down furiously on her jealousy as she watched them kiss from the shadows, her not-so-subtle intrusion and proclamation about their lives and fulfillment and –

_We may not have bigger lives…but we have each other._

(And, damn it, she _meant that_ _too_.)

But he’s not finished, shaking his head slowly, finally breaking her tearful gaze to stare downwards, distraught and unseeing. With a shock, Liz feels his hands, still holding her wrists, start to stroke lightly with his thumbs, absentmindedly, with no purpose, apparently aware he’s doing it. He’s just standing there inches from her, staring helplessly at the floor as he grasps her wrists gently in his hands as if to ground himself, desperate for the contact.

Another clap of thunder crashes around them.

And then he speaks again.

“Lizzie…After all we’ve been through…”

He looks back up at her then, just in time for Liz to see two tears slip down his cheeks, illuminated in that second by a poignant flash of lightning flickering through the apartment.

(Oh, she’s never seen him cry.)

And his cherished face, now wet with tears in an unfamiliar sight she instantly abhors, combined with the emotion in his voice, completely gutted, and the unspoken question he seems to be asking –

_Haven’t I done enough?_

– it’s all combining to have her blinking in shock as memories flash like the lightning outside behind her closed lids of all the things she’s forgotten about him.

_How he looked at her from the box on that very first day, dark and reverent._

_The drink he ordered her at dinner in Montreal in fluid French, showy and flirtatious._

_How he held her when he showed her the music box, tight and comforting._

_The look on his face when she saved him from Yabari, shocked and disbelieving._

_The way he held her hand as they fled the police together on the run, strong and steady._

_The things he said to her that night on the shipping container, hushed and devoted._

_How he sat by her bedside all through her long, long coma, unwavering and steadfast._

_How he cared for Agnes, fatherly and true._

_How he loves her._

_Selflessly._

Through everything they’ve been through together.

(And why, oh why, does she continue to do this to them?)

It all hits her in a rush, how obsessed she is, how determined she is to destroy them by alternating with living too much in the present and the times that are long since dead. How she repeatedly forgets what’s really important, their immediate past and how that connects them, all the things they’ve been through together and, above all, how dearly she loves him.

(He won’t steer her wrong.)

She sags against him, the weight of everything she’s forgotten weighing her down, and realizes how _tired_ she is, chasing after answers that don’t really matter. What really matters is right here and now, Agnes and Red, and, most of all?

How much she misses being loved.

Giving herself to someone else.

Loving.

With her unexpected bonelessness, her surrender to all things inevitable, she goes from leaning against the wall, penned in – but not restrained – by Red’s arms, to draped against him instead. With their chests suddenly pressed together and her chin now resting on his shoulder, Red automatically releases her wrists in favor of wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her up, supporting her.

And really, what else is new?

(All she had to do was stop fighting.)

Liz can’t stop her own arms from coming up to wrap around him, cradling the back of his head, willing his tears to stop, all of a sudden feeling intensely, overwhelmingly grateful for him. His tears wet the skin of her neck, even as his hands rub her back, one moving up to stroke tenderly over her hair.

(And she forgot how nice it feels to be touched. Katarina has certainly never offered to hug her.)

The rain begins to quiet on the roof now, just the softest patter, barely audible, with a soft rumble of thunder now in the distance as they stand holding each other in the dim, rainy half-light, dark and cool and comforting.

(They needed this.)

“I’m sorry, Red,” Liz murmurs into his shoulder, after a long moment of listening to his slow breathing amidst the rain.

She feels his fingers twitch against her back and rubs a hand over the back of his head in soothing, feeling him shiver against her in response and, pressed together head to toe as they are in the middle of a storm, it’s the most natural thing in the world to tilt her head and gently press her lips to his neck.

She feels his deep intake of breath at the sensation, expanding under her hands – more to hold, more to touch – and, now that she’s started, she finds it hard to stop, moving slowly within his arms to press kiss after kiss to the soft skin of his neck, feeling slow and languid and drugging like the rain.

(And to stand here taking in his warmth and give him some love back in return for once, it all feels more wonderful than she ever imagined it would.)

But there’s more that needs to be said so Liz forces herself to stop for the moment, resting her forehead against his shoulder to steady herself. She pulls back just far enough to look him in the eyes, her throat tightening at what she sees looking back at her.

Such raw, new emotions in his wonderfully familiar features. Shock and vulnerability and adoration.

_(Love.)_

“I suppose I just assumed she was worthy of my trust,” Liz murmurs, unable to resist putting a hand to his face, cradling his cheek, captivated as he immediately tilts his head into her palm and closes his eyes.

“But I should know by now the only person worthy of my trust is you.”

To her surprise, Red’s eyes snap open, wide and honest, and he speaks for the first time in what feels like ages.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far…” he rumbles, and his voice, so close to her, sounds like her own personal thunderstorm, low and powerful and now –

All hers.

But he continues.

“I’ve long since accepted I’ll never be worthy of you, Lizzie.”

(Oh, _Red_.)

Liz shakes her head, lost for words, overcome by the sheer breadth and force of his love for her, something she hasn’t always wanted to accept, and she feels a surge in her chest because after all he’s seen, all he’s done, all his pain and suffering, he’s still _so sweet_ –

And she’s not sure who makes the first move, but neither of them have far to go, because they’re so close that all she has to do is tilt her head and inch forward and he’s right there to meet her, his lips greeting hers for a kiss that feels like a melding, as fluid as the sluices of rain gliding down the window, their mouths moving with a quiet desperation, pressed close and morphing the stormy chill in the room to something warm and thorough and drugging as thunder rumbles a final time, far away.

(The storm is over, and the aftermath feels like a reckoning.)

Liz sighs into Red’s mouth as his tongue strokes hers, her hands gathering fistfuls of his smooth, white dress shirt while he presses her back gently against the wall with a low moan. One of his hands strokes her waist while the other delves into her hair, lightly massaging her scalp in a way that makes her weak in the knees. Liz runs a hand over his shoulder and down his chest, strong and firm, and squeezes his bicep with a quiet groan before she reluctantly pulls away from his mouth.

She doesn’t go far, the magnetic tug she’s always felt crackling like lightning between them, now stronger than ever, simply not allowing her too, and she presses her forehead firmly to his to regain her breath. Red, for his part, seems equally winded, breathing heavily with her, but also seeming strangely fascinated with her hair, running his fingers through her long, dark locks, rubbing the strawberry-scented softness between his fingers, and even – and her heart stutters at the realization – leaning in to smell it.

Liz brings up a hand to wipe away a few fresh tears on his cheek.

“No, there’s at least one thing of mine that you’ve always been worthy of, Red,” she murmurs, wanting him to know the truth, the fact she’s held deep inside herself since that fateful day they met all over again.

And the disbelieving expression he gives her then does nothing but cement the sheer conviction of her next words to him, soft and poignant and final, the port in their storm.

“My love.”


End file.
